Bait and Switch
by Cascade Waters
Summary: Because sometimes Frank just needs his dad more than his boss.  Part of my Needs series.  WARNING:  Contains the disciplinary spanking of an adult.  You know where the back button is.


Bait and Switch – Needs series

By fc

Rated PG-13, to be safe

Disclaimer: I don't own the Blue Bloods characters. I sort of own Janet, but only because she came in handy.

Warning: Disciplinary spanking of an adult.

A/N: Merry Christmas, Marie!

December 23, 1977

Frank swallowed hard; he felt a little sick, standing with his back against his own kitchen wall, listening to his mother move picture frames to dust his living room, and watching his father deftly strip the needles and twig roots from the branch that Frank had taken from his own Christmas tree. He'd saved for weeks to surprise his M&M with a real tree to fill their little apartment with the aroma of unbottled pine; after today, he was pretty sure that he'd never want to see or smell (or feel) pine again.

He opened his mouth to protest, to use what his wife called his 'velvet voice' to reason the Captain out of this ridiculous idea, but Henry stopped stripping to raise an eyebrow at his son, showing how distressingly well he knew Frank, and the young officer shut his mouth with an audible snap. Henry gave him a "that's what I thought" look and went back to his task.

What Henry held was not a whole lot more than a twig, really, but to Frank, it grew bigger and heavier and more sinister with every second. The nausea grew with it, and by the time Henry was satisfied with his handiwork, Frank couldn't focus on anything else. He was staring so fixedly at the branch, his mouth dry and his stomach roiling, that he missed Henry's command the first time, and the Captain had to repeat himself—never a good thing.

"Francis Decker!" Frank looked up, startled, at his father's bark, and knew that he was on thin ice. "I said, over the table!" When Frank didn't instantly obey, Henry lowered his head and glowered at his son. "Trust me, kid, you do not want me to say it again."

Having been on the receiving end of his father's discipline more times than he thought it dignified to count, Frank knew for a fact that this was true. He knew that if he didn't step lively to do as he was told, he would pay a high price for that after settling up the debt he already owed. Unfortunately, he also knew that he'd never been particularly graceful about bills, nor about offering up his assets—especially those to which he was attached—for payment.

But he didn't really have much choice now; he'd left that line in the dust earlier today, when he'd been part of the visible muscle on a drug raid task force in the warehouse district. The detectives heading the op had been trying to close the jaws on a heroin ring for the past eighteen months, and they finally had a reliable tip that the traffickers were set for a hand-off this afternoon, using a stolen U-Haul truck repainted to mimic a Salvation Army toy hauler. Frank had been one of the dozen uniforms selected for the raid, mostly because his TO was saddled temporarily with two other rookies who needed attitude adjustments (and Lasker was the toughest, meanest, strictest training officer in the NYPD, so he sometimes got tapped to run shape-up beats,) and so young Officer Reagan had been available, and with his imposing frame and sharp eyes, he'd been a good choice.

At least, that is, until he'd spotted a hole in the net; he'd tried to present his idea to the detectives in charge, but they'd blown him off. Frank was still a rookie, and still had a lot to learn about the job, especially in situations like this, but the one thing he did know from his father's Sunday dinner stories was that detectives had no documented authority to order even green recruits to do (or not do) squat. Yes, this was their op, using their intel and experience, but he didn't like leaving the southwest corner of the property uncovered, and he really didn't like being verbally patted on the head and dismissed like. . . well, like one of his preschoolers. He wasn't expecting some sort of special treatment because he happened to be a captain's kid—in fact, Henry was eyeing a division chief spot, and he'd made such a point of not showing any sort of favoritism that Frank pretty much figured it didn't matter what he did, as long as he didn't break any major regs or embarrass the old man. So he'd made sure that the other uniforms were ready to adjust their positions to cover his assigned spot, and when he'd seen his moment, he'd taken it, slipping away to park an abandoned cargo van from the next lot right on the property line and then to hide in the back.

And he'd been right—at least, partially. When the raid had gone down, the rest of the premesis had been adequately screened, and one of the suspects had broken and run for the southwest corner, right to the van with the keys left on the front seat. And Frank had been there to put a crimp in his day.

What Frank hadn't known. . . well, there was a list, as the detectives and their lieutenant, and then the captain, had loudly informed him. Topping that list were these facts: 1) the fleeing suspect was armed; 2) the fleeing suspect was supposed to escape because the detectives had banked on him leading them up the chain to one of the actual cartel lieutenants; 3) the fleeing suspect had made a hobby of modifying flare guns to fire larger rounds with greater range and more force—one of which had passed so close to Frank that it had singed his ear and taken out a small Dumpster; and 4) Captain Reagan had signed off on his son being included in the raid because he had faith that his kid would follow orders and help the op succeed with a minimum of gunfire and property damage. The captain had added that he valued the ability to strategize and improvise, but that Frank should be very familiar with the concept of respecting authority without explanation, and that he couldn't have his officers out on the street, let alone taking part in focused operations, if he couldn't trust them to handle themselves without hot-dogging. He'd sent Frank to a desk to fill out the paperwork, all of it, with orders to go straight home as soon as the after-actions were done. Frank had spent a little over two hours agonizing less over the reports than over the awkward feeling of deja-vu and the inability to not squirm in his seat.

When he'd reached his apartment, he'd discovered his wife gone for a while, as a gift from Frank's mother, to get her nails and hair done before picking up the kids from the church pageant practice. . . and his parents there, his mom cleaning and his dad filling out department budget forms. Betty had given him a hard hug and a look layered with disappointment and sadness, and had carried on with the cleaning that his Mary was generally too tired to do, with two toddlers and an infant on hand.

He'd warily greeted his captain on his way to his room to change, and had been stopped in his tracks as Henry had made it very clear that he was Frank's father and that, since Frank had so loved the idea of a bait-and-switch, Henry thought that a switch seemed like a pretty decent idea. And that yes, as a matter of fact, his mother would be there, but that it was far from the first time she'd heard her second-born get his tail warmed. And that stalling would tax Henry's patience and give them more to 'discuss,' not to mention that eventually Mary would come home with the babies, and Frank needed to decide whether he wanted to explain this situation to them.

So now here he was, reluctantly turning his back to his father and leaning awkwardly over his own formica kitchen table, and gritting his teeth while following orders to drop his uniform pants and boxers, and placing his feet where he was told to, and wondering why on earth he was so tense about a little spanking with a little stick, at his age.

*thwick*

Oh. That was why.

Frank pursed his lips and tried to shift his weight as the first stroke stung the thin skin near his tailbone, but his father's warning bark had him settling back into position a good breath before twin lines ran over one side just below the first strike. Two breaths, then three lines on the other side, a little lower down still. Two more breaths, four to each sit spot; two more breaths, and three lines on top of the very first. Henry worked like that, the numbers predictable but the target less so, past the point when Frank wondered if he'd actually sat in a fire ant hill and was just dreaming of being switched like an errant schoolboy. He hated this—it wasn't just the embarrassment, or the vulnerability, or how long it was taking (Mary really could come home at any time,) or how much it _hurt_, or how hard it was for the former Marine and war veteran to keep himself still and reasonably quiet (he soothed his wounded pride with the thought that no mortal could be expected to take this silently,) but also how much he despised his father's method. It was almost like he'd planned this, like it was an op he'd lined out while Frank was doing reports. No way this was genetic; sure, Frank might have to smack Danny's little butt a couple times a day, but there was just no way that Frank would ever be so. . . sadistic.

And then there was the disappointment. Frank had learned a long time ago that his father loved him and would never be disappointed in him, but his behavior . . . well, now, that was a different story entirely. Frank had trusted him, not to show off or show up anyone, but to handle himself like a professional, and Frank had chosen to buck the rails; sure, he might have had a point, but he'd screwed up and managed to prove only that he should have been left to man the holiday tip line, fielding drunken reports of radioactive turkeys and swingers in Santa suits. His ear tingled, and he remembered that Henry could have had to tell Betty and Mary and the kids that Frank wouldn't be coming home.

Just about the time that was hitting his heart, that wicked little pine twig was hitting his undercurve, again, and the big tough Marine-turned-cop put his forehead down on the cool surface of the table and started to sob. Henry paused, this time for about four breaths, and then laid the switch on the table and swatted Frank four times with his hand, twice on each sit spot. Then he sighed, slid his hand under the uniform shirt, and rested it on the center of Frank's back. After a few moments, he patted, then curled his fingers and scratched gently before patting again and reclaiming his hand. It took another minute or so before Frank was ready to lift his head and uncurl his own fingers from the far edge of the table. He used one hand to scrub at his face, trying to banish any sign of tears before anyone could see, but then a handkerchief appeared in front of his face, the hand-stitched blue shamrock in the corner showing HDR in faded gold, and Frank blushed as he took it and used it. It was grayed but clean, warm and creased from his father's pocket, and it smelled faintly of his mom's detergent and his dad's soap.

Henry had to help him straighten, ignoring Frank's sharp hiss and squirming at the movement. The older man let the younger fix his own clothing, and then he squeezed Frank's shoulder and turned him sideways so that they could face each other. Henry gripped both shoulders and met Frank's eyes, and his voice was firm but low.

"Now, Francis Decker, are we gonna have to talk about this again?" Frank shook his head emphatically, sniffling, and Henry chuckled when his big strapping son had to reach up to rub his itchy nose and then tried rubbing his backside and decided that that wasn't a great idea. "Okay, then." Henry gave Frank an approving smile and pulled him down so that Henry could kiss his forehead.

When the rest of the family came in two minutes later, Mary looking a bit less tired as she lugged in two diapered sheep and a busily crunching donkey, Betty and Henry were ready with open arms. Danny was very happy to see PopPop and Gimma, and even happier to see Daddy, who emerged from the master bedroom a couple of minutes later in sweats, for once glad that the apartment was so small; it was just possible that no one had had a chance to notice how awkwardly he was walking. He found himself with his arms full of Danny in his soft gray sleeper and handmade cap with pointed donkey ears. Frank looked at Mary, a question in his eyes, when he heard Danny crunching, and she shrugged.

"Janet Messer's in charge of sets this year; she couldn't figure out how to get hay, and she didn't want to waste time shredding paper, so apparently she thought that raw spaghetti noodles would work this time." She gratefully handed off Erin to Henry and Joe-Joe to Betty and the diaper bag to the entryway floor. "Of course, now a fourth of our little animals have eaten half of the hay in the stable. And she wants a black sheep, just to keep things, you know, diverse, so she asked if she could spray-paint Joe-Joe. I think I have her convinced just to let me dye his sleeper and use some black lipstick on his nose."

"I pay-paint Dodo foh you, Mama!" Danny volunteered. "I gots cwayons 'n fingah-paints, I do weal good!"

"I hepp! Dodo be bwack wike Missa Gibbs!" Erin nodded and bounced in her grandfather's arms.

The adults shared looks that were just a little bit twitchy, then turned slowly toward the door to the boys' room. Mister Gibbs was a pillow shaped like a pig. He was a hand-me-down from their uncle (Frank's was a yellow fish, and hopelessly misplaced, or so he claimed.) He was well-loved by all three kids. And he was light blue.

Frank had a feeling that, if he could get off in time, this year's pageant would be worth sitting through. Even if he couldn't sit.


End file.
